


Refiner's Fire

by fn_nancy



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen, Pre-cult, child abuse tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fn_nancy/pseuds/fn_nancy
Summary: After being taken away from their abusive father, 15-year-old Jacob Seed held little hope that the lives of his brothers and himself would improve. His suspicions are confirmed when they are thrust into the care of the Isaacs, a couple who treat them little better than slaves. Jacob bides his time, until the night he can finally set his family free.
Relationships: Jacob Seed & John Seed & Joseph Seed
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Refiner's Fire

Jacob watched fields and copses pass by with a sense of foreboding, tuning out the animated chatter of the social worker in the driver's seat. Jen, she insisted they call her. She seemed like a very nice person, but if the past few weeks had taught him anything, it was that he couldn't stand nice people, with their nosy concern and worthless platitudes.

She spoke cheerfully of the new life Jacob and his brothers were about to embark on. Occasionally she'd regard each of them in turn in the rearview mirror, her patronizing smile never wavering.

Neither of his brothers shared his feelings. Oh, Joseph was his usual reserved self, hardly saying two words together, but Jacob could tell by his rapt gaze and relaxed shoulders that he was content in his anticipation of what lay before them. John, on Joseph's other side, eagerly watched their passage along the highway and exclaimed at any grazing farm animals. As the youngest he was originally supposed to sit in the middle, but after begging his brothers to switch with him, Joseph had been all too happy to oblige his little brother.

"... Don't hesitate to call them Mom and Dad," Jen went on. Jacob gave a start, glancing at his brothers, but neither of their demeanours had changed.

He wanted to be cautious. He didn't want to get his hopes up, lest they be dashed yet again, and he especially didn't want that for John and Joseph. But it was getting harder to remain circumspect when this was the most carefree his little brothers had ever been.

"Looks like we're here," Jen said, as she turned into a long gravel driveway. In spite of himself, Jacob eyed the yard as interestedly as his brothers did. The house certainly didn’t look as nice as some they’d passed, but compared with the hellhole they’d grown up in, it was a palace. Chickens pecked at the ground inside their pen, and a few cows grazed in a nearby field. A sizable garden lay beside the house, and on its other side sat an old barn, its red paint all but chipped away.

Farm life could suit him very well, he thought.

When Jen smiled as his eyes met hers, he quickly turned away, suppressing a grimace. He had to keep his guard up.

John bounded ahead of them, down the overgrown path and up the creaking porch steps. Though it was late in the morning, curtains covered the windows, hiding the inside from view. Jacob gripped a garbage bag containing his and his brothers' clothes in his fist, careful not to let it drag on the ground.

"Can I ring the doorbell?" John asked.

"Of course," Jen said, smiling.

John glanced back at them. At Jacob's nod, he turned, and gave the button a pronounced press.

After a full ten-second wait—Jacob counted—the door opened.

"Why, hello there." The woman looked middle-aged, with heavily greying hair pulled back into a bun, and a broad yet angular face. Her smile didn't meet her eyes. "Are these the three strong boys I've heard so much about?"

Jen laughed. "Yes, Mrs. Isaac, I've brought your three strong boys. Is Mr. Isaac around?"

"Yes, he's just inside. Come on in."

Two things immediately piqued Jacob's interest: the TV in the living room, showing a baseball game, and the sweet scent of fresh pastry, wafting from somewhere farther in. They'd never had a TV in their old house. Who he could only assume was Mr. Isaac sat in an old, stained armchair. He didn't stand to greet them; he only muted the TV and turned to stare at them. He did not smile.

Jen and Mrs. Isaac did most of the talking, but it wasn't long before Jen glanced at her watch and exclaimed at how late it was. "Sorry, but I gotta run. I'm sure you guys don't need my help settling in and getting to know each other, right?"

"We'll manage," Mrs. Isaac said, smiling. Mr. Isaac said nothing.

"Don't hesitate to call the agency if you have any questions. I'll visit in a few weeks to see how you're settling in. Well, bye then!"

The door shut behind her.

Without another word, Mrs. Isaac swiftly turned away, going into another room. Mr. Isaac had already turned back to the television, the volume of his baseball game back at full blast.

Jacob and his brothers stood awkwardly, bunched in the entrance. Doubt etched itself onto John's face, and Jacob silently fumed. If these people hurt his brothers ...

Mrs. Isaac returned with several pairs of boots in her arms. She dropped them at the boys' feet. "Try these on, see how they fit."

John and Joseph immediately did as they were told, Joseph helping John to find the smallest pair. Jacob waited, though.

Mrs. Isaac quickly took notice of his inaction. "Well, Jake? Get to it. We don't have all day."

"Don't call me Jake."

"Pardon?" She squinted at him.

"You heard me."

The sound of squeaking springs tore Jacob's attention away from her. Mr. Isaac stood facing them. There was nothing striking about his appearance—he wasn't particularly tall or short, thin or broad, pale or tan. He stared Jacob down, saying nothing.

Gritting his teeth, Jacob crouched and began searching for the pair that looked closest to his size. _One day_ , he told himself. _One day._

Mr. Isaac returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.

The largest pair were a little tight, but they would have to do. John's were worse—they had to be at least three sizes too big.

Mrs. Isaac led them out into the yard. Not wanting to leave their belongings unattended, Jacob carried the garbage bag with him.

The midmorning sun warmed their backs, threatening an even hotter day to come. Mrs. Isaac entered the old barn, and the inside, though dark, was already as hot as a midsummer's afternoon. The faint stench of manure tickled Jacob's nose. John, always sensitive to such things, covered his nose and mouth with the top of his oversized T-shirt.

Mrs. Isaac seemed entirely unaffected by the smell. She gave the barn a quick look-over, then gestured to some shovels leaning against the wall. "You'd better get cleaning," she said. "This'll be your bedroom."

"Are you fucking serious?" Jacob blurted out.

"Watch your language," she said sharply. "I don't joke around, boy." She paused. "Well, what are you waiting for? We don't have all day—the chicken pen needs to be cleaned today yet, too, and dozens of other things need to be done besides." She left.

Joseph and John looked to Jacob, both stricken.

He wanted to rebel. He wanted to catch up to Mrs. Isaac and demand proper treatment. He wanted to take his little brothers and their garbage bag of clothes, hitchhike across the country, and fend for themselves until they found somewhere safe.

But the system wouldn't let them.

They couldn't run. They couldn't fight. So they'd have to bide their time, until ...

He sighed, taking a shovel. "We'll have to do what she says." _For now,_ he silently added.

As the morning progressed, the barn only grew hotter. They found some old rugs, beat them to get most of the dust off, then lay them down as a sort of mattress. John cried, off and on, while Joseph remained silently morose. Jacob pummeled dust off the rugs with more force than was strictly necessary to vent his frustration. He hadn't known he still held on to a little bit of hope that the system could be good, could help to save his brothers and himself, but now, it was smashed to pieces even tinier than the dust motes that floated through the air.

Mrs. Isaac, exemplar of kindness as she was, brought them a lunch of raw vegetables and cold ham at noon. No sign whatsoever of the pie they'd smelled that morning. After, she made good on her promise of having them clean the chicken coop, and not only that, but feeding the chickens, mowing the lawn, hanging the laundry out to dry, weeding the garden, watering the garden, and sweeping the porch. It dawned on Jacob that she really wasn't kidding about there being dozens of things to do.

As Jacob knelt in the garden late in the afternoon, pulling weeds, Mrs. Isaac came out and, after a little deliberation, recruited Joseph to help her make supper. Annoyed that Joseph knew little about cooking besides the most rudimentary of basics, she all but dragged him to the house. Jacob half stood, wanting to stop her, but Joseph gave a quick shake of his head. Jacob reluctantly respected his wishes. He knew that for himself, he'd rather spend the rest of the week weeding in the sweltering heat than spend even one minute alone in that house, with those people.

After supper, they were sent ungraciously to bed, each given a coarse blanket and thin coverless pillow, with their only source of light being a single flashlight. John cried himself to sleep, leaning against Joseph. Exhausted as he was, it was only in the early hours of the morning that Jacob's fury ebbed enough for him to succumb to sleep.

* * *

It seemed like he'd just shut his eyes when Mrs. Isaac came barging into the barn. "Why aren't you up yet? I know you boys never worked a day in your life before yesterday, but even you must know farm work starts early."

Jacob wanted to ask, _Ever heard of knocking?_ , but he wasn't in the mood for a fight. When they left the comfort of the barn, the sun wasn't even a sliver on the horizon.

Mrs. Isaac wasted no time in starting to teach them various farm chores, turning especially nasty when they weren't learning fast enough for her liking. After a vicious put-down for spilling a bucket of water, John trembled. Jacob silently took the bucket from his little brother, seething.

"You won't be getting any breakfast until all this is finished," Mrs. Isaac threatened.

It was like that for the rest of the day—they were only fed when Mrs. Isaac had deemed they'd worked hard enough.

It wasn't just farm work, either. Jacob got to experience life in the home first-hand when Mrs. Isaac selected him for helping her cook supper.

Not once, in the two hours that Jacob spent in the house, did Mr. Isaac get up from his chair in the TV room. Occasionally he'd call to Mrs. Isaac to remind her of something, or tell her to fetch something for him, which she would then make Jacob do. Mr. Isaac never thanked Jacob, or even acknowledged his existence with a passing glance. Jacob was almost shocked to have met a person even more worthless than his biological father.

Tasked with bringing Mr. Isaac's plate to him, Jacob spit into the mashed potatoes when he thought no one was looking, only to be met with Joseph's disapproving stare. Although he'd been planning to, he didn't do the same to Mrs. Isaac's plate.

That night, Jacob was almost thankful to be sent back to the barn, considering the atmosphere of the house. A blessing in disguise, it appeared, at least until a large spider crawled across his face in the middle of the night.

* * *

Jen the social worker never ended up checking on them, nor anyone else from her agency. Not that Jacob would have told anyone the truth about their situation, anyway. He couldn't trust a broken system.

Soon enough, they all started out at new schools—John at an elementary school, and Jacob and Joseph at the high school. Jacob hated not being able to check on John during the day, but he watched out for Joseph as best he could. Joseph seemed as much of a loner as he was; Jacob's classmates steered clear of him, which suited him just fine. He and Joseph always spent their lunch period together, never saying much.

* * *

Jacob sat with John in the garden on a mercifully cool Saturday afternoon, weeding yet again. Though it was his least favourite chore, he was at least glad to be doing it together with his baby brother.

Then came Mrs. Isaac's furious shout from the porch:

"John!"

John flinched.

"John!" She tramped across the yard, some wet garment in her hand. "What's this?" she demanded.

John stammered so badly, not even Jacob could make out what he said.

"You little jerk—don't you know you're supposed to wash whites separately? Are you some kind of retard?"

"It was me."

Her head swiveled toward Jacob. "What?"

"I put the clothes in the wash. My mistake—won't happen again." He looked her straight in the eye.

She frowned. Sized him up. Then said, in a quieter tone, "You make sure that it doesn't, or you'll be sorry." She trudged back to the house.

John didn't cry. He only kept on weeding, face expressionless. Jacob would've felt better if he'd cried.

* * *

There wasn't a muscle in Jacob's body that wasn't sore, but he pressed on. He worked mechanically, or at least tried to: break the ground with the shovel, scoop up some dirt, lift it to the wheelbarrow, upend it. His head was killing him—his throat, too. He knew he was sick. But he couldn't stand the thought of Joseph and John having to pick up his slack. They had too much on their plates already.

After yet another coughing fit, Joseph approached him, his thin face pinched with worry. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Jacob straightened up on wobbly legs, trying his damnedest not to show it.

"You're sick."

"So?"

"You should take a break."

"I told you, I'm fine." He stabbed at the earth with the shovel, and the momentum was nearly enough to knock him over.

Joseph, of course, didn't miss it. "No, you're not fine. You need to rest. I can finish it later if she thinks it needs to be done now."

"No." The urge to cough bubbled up his throat, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He turned to dump the dirt.

He felt a hand on his arm. "Jacob—"

"I told you, I'm—!" Coughs exploded out of him. He couldn't breathe. He bent over, eyes watering, hoping it would end soon so he could get back to work.

Eventually it did subside, leaving him shaking. He reached down to pick up the shovel.

But Joseph grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing Jacob to look at him. "You're going to kill yourself at this rate! Can't you see that?"

Jacob stared. His scrawny little brother, with fire in his eyes. A night came to mind, so long ago—the night Joseph had convinced him not to confront their father. He'd had the same fire in his eyes then, too.

"You don't need to push yourself so hard," Joseph said. "You do enough already. John and I will be fine."

"Okay." Somehow, Jacob found himself stepping away—relenting.

Joseph may have convinced him, but he didn't have to like it. He rested for a week until he finally recovered, and hated every second of it.

* * *

It was the sight of Atlanta burning that gave him the solution to their problems.

He'd lost count of all the times he'd seen _Gone With the Wind_ at school. Georgia just loved to toot its own mediocre horn. He chuckled at the memory of his father yanking him and Joseph out of the classroom while drunkenly prophesying hellfire for the teachers and students, though there wasn't really any humour in it. The good old days.

But this time, as he watched the greyscale flames flickering over the city, he suddenly knew exactly what he had to do in order to save his little brothers.

* * *

That night, Jacob didn't sleep. He waited.

When he was certain John and Joseph were asleep, he crept to the door, and opened it just a crack. The house was dark.

He slowly made his way to the shed, careful to stay in the deepest shadows. Once he reached it, he found the gasoline canister just inside, right where he'd left it.

Upon his return to the barn, he silently woke his brothers. John rubbed his eyes, groggy and confused, but Joseph took one look at the bright red canister in Jacob's hand, just barely illuminated by the moonlight spilling in from the open door, then led John out, blankets draped over their shoulders like mangy capes. Jacob was pleasantly surprised that Joseph wasn't going to try to stop him.

He poured gasoline over everything, though he made sure to only use about a third of the canister: he wasn't done with it yet. As he exited, he pulled a box of matches from his pocket, pilfered from one of his classmates.

He lit a match. Threw it into the barn. Poof—up went the flames.

After releasing the cows from their stable and the chickens from their coop, he lit those on fire, too. The canister now depleted, he chucked it. He picked up an axe handle.

Finally came Mrs. Isaac's shrieks from the house. Half a minute later Mr. Isaac shambled out the front door, still in his pajamas, so distracted by the inferno that he didn't even notice Jacob until he bumped against his shoulder. "What the _hell_ —"

Five consecutive hits with the axe handle, and Mr. Isaac was down. Jacob gave him a couple more for good measure.

As he stood over the groaning man, Jacob was struck by just how _weak_ he was. Jacob could've easily done this on the first day. He'd just built Mr. Isaac up in his mind as an untouchable giant, one he couldn't dare disobey, because that's what the system had taught him—that adults had intrinsic power over him.

One look at Mrs. Isaac had her squealing, running off into the night.

At that point, Jacob figured he may as well burn the rest, too. He didn't have any more gasoline, but he still had plenty of matches. Up in flames went the house, the shed, the truck, the car.

Until finally he joined his brothers, huddled together, watching the flames. They sat in comfortable silence for hours, until the sounds of sirens broke the night.

All he could see, all he could think of, was his little brothers. "I'll come back for you," he shouted over his shoulder as they pushed him into the cop car. "It'll be okay. I promise."

Whatever his punishment was, it wouldn't last forever. And once it was all over and he reached adulthood, he'd go out and he'd find them. Even the system couldn't stop him from doing that.

They'd be together in the end, no matter what.


End file.
